The Unaccounted files: New Geneva's Battle
by MJDM95
Summary: Shitty title, I know. This fic is really inspired by the Halo fanfic, The Enemy Of My Enemy, it's a mirror fanfic meaning its similar to Katsuhiro's version though mine is edited here and there.  Both Franchises belong to their respective owners, OCS mine
1. Chapter 1

Grass. It's everywhere on the Fringe World of New Geneva.

For as far as the human eye can see, there's nothing but swirls and specks of greenery bending and swaying to harsh winds from the Planet's Northern hemisphere.

Between these lush and breathtaking slices of heaven, landmarks are few and far between, relegated to the occasional clumps of Mineral patches and Vespene geysers; rendered all but blotchy smears when viewed from the cloudless sky above. As the Grizzly dropship shadow sweeps across the golden desert floor, such land-marks are quickly forgotten. Flight Officer Jerry O' Neil's voice is weary as he keys the com once more.

"Oscar Four-Two, this is Kilo-Five-Seven, call-sign Terminator. Do you copy, over?"

Only static answers him.

"I say again, this is Kilo-Five-Seven, call-sign Terminator. Oscar Four-Two do you copy, over?"

Jerry rolled the lander to port, broadcasting his transmission one last time. No response. He sighs and cranes his neck around to glance at the empty row of seats behind him. A few hours earlier, they had all been full; teeming with the very men Terminator had been tasked to retrieve. The hold seemed cavernous now. _Like a goddamn tomb, _Jerry grimaced.

Frustrated, and more than a little bit spooked, Perry opened a new channel.

"This is Terminator to Control, nobody's out here. Not a even damn whisper and I am almost bingo on fuel, over."

"Roger that, Terminator," Control's response crackled, "RTB for debrief."

"Ten-Four, confirm-RTB, out."

As the modified dropship veered off and away into the distance, the dust-storm swelled to an outright howl. Layers of sand begin to peel away, revealing scorched and blackened wreckage. Here, the crumpled husk of a 2499 model AAV-5 Tank, more commonly known as the Arclite Siege Tank lies upended, its turret snapped neatly in half. There, lies a trio of Stinger Light Reconaissance Vehicles, gutted by crude yet devastating Corpses, shrivelled by the endless heat, sprawl baking where they fell.

The great Northern winds bellowed on, undaunted. Just as quickly as it is unveiled by the winds, the carnage is buried once more under a mass of green. The thick foliage of New Geneva care little for this brutal conflict. On the planet's time-scale, it registers as less than a heartbeat. It is trivial, insignificant. To the Terran Dominion forces stationed on New Geneva, however, it is something else entirely.

It is but a taste of things to come.


	2. Chapter 2

"Kilo-Five-Seven has touched down and her pilot is en-route for debrief, Sir." First Lieutenant Burbatoff reported smartly.

Major Gerard Ashton wasn't listening. Indeed, he was ignoring the junior officer entirely. Slumped in his high-backed leather chair, the swarthy, hulk of a man seemed fully intent on staring into space. A tapestry of crumpled coffee cups, discarded data-pads and over spilling ashtrays littered the desk in front of him. It looked like the remains of a battlefield. Major Ashton probably would have appreciated the analogy, were he capable of caring anymore.

Burbatoff frowned, and tentatively tried again.

"Uh, Major, Kilo-Five-"

"I heard you the first time." Abelev grunted, without so much as turning his head. "That'll be all, son."

"Sir." Burbatofff snapped a tight salute. Ashton's own was casual, almost an after-thought. Brambley was well versed in masking his disdain, however, and left without another word. He had much better things to do.

Ashton was miserable. He was a good soldier, a proud soldier, a _resocced_ soldier but still, a proud and good one, however the writing was on the wall. He'd been Mar Sara, he'd fought Zerg forces in no less than four separate engagements - and survived. The jagged scars which twisted the edge of his mouth into a wicked grimace were testament to the fact that he very nearly didn't. He had never asked for it, but they had given him medals and acclaim. Not that he gave a damn, of course, but the gesture was nice.

But now look at him, where was he? Stuck here, marooned on a no-bit colony inhabited by Corporate pigs and whack job dirt farmers while the rest of the Koprulu Sector burned. There was no fleet left to pluck him from obscurity and let him do his job - a job he loved. And so he sat, and smoked, and - when Burbatoff wasn't around to cluck his tongue - he drank. Heavily.

He turned and spared a glance out of the control tower's viewport, his morose, blood-shot eyes taking in the skeletal remains of the D.A.F_ Anchises_. It was the Dominion military warship that had brought him and his men here, and it taunted him every day; providing false hopes of possible escape.

Ashton had managed to prevent the colonists from gutting it entirely for all of six weeks before finally relenting. Supplies were low, and with the rest of the Sector occupies with the unfortunate business of boodshed and war, the chances of New Geneva receiving proper re-supply were practically non-existent.

Ashton snorted in amusement as he reached for the bottle of whiskey secreted away beneath his desk. The _Anchises_ had heroically survived over three days of sustained combat in both the Battle of Mar Sara, Korhal's Fall and Kerrigan's Great Betrayal, only to be finished in a matter of hours by a swarm of resource-hungry colonists.

"Such is the fate of true heroism," he toasted, swigging from the bottle.

In more peaceful times, such measures would not have been necessary. If anything, it would have been tantamount to treason. Since the beginning of the Second Great War war, Horizon, New Geneva's only city, had been content to sit tight and mind its own business, hoping to remain the obscure little colony it was. All but forgotten on the very rim of the Terran Dominion territory, their isolation was their greatest defence. To date, it had performed magnificently.

Until now. Now they were at alert, and with the second disappearance of a long range patrol in as many weeks, the city was prepping itself for war, in whatever meagre way it could. After all these nervous months of listening to wide-band despatches, eaves-dropping on the death of their own species, the war had finally come to New Geneneva.

Realising that help was not coming, and that the possibility of rejoining the defence of the Inner Colonies was nothing but a childish fantasy, Ashton had accepted his fate, and allowed the colonists to strip the once proud BattleCruiser down to its very bones. With the ship's captain having been killed at Korhal, there had been few objections. The Major turned his attention to gaze at the bustling city beyond the reaches of the starport. It was for the good of the colony, Ashton told himself. It was the right thing to do. He took another swig.

_But if that was true… then why did he feel so miserable?_


	3. Chapter 3

Thousands of miles above the planet's atmosphere, all was still. The stars shone softly, as they had done for centuries. New Geneva, just a sphere of glittering gold brindled with swirling Green, seemed so tranquil.

Suddenly, the universe above the planet ripped apart in a vibrant crackle of purple incandescent energy. There was a flash, then a pulsing flare. Ripping through this gaping rift ploughed the stiff prow of a Dictator Class Imperium Warship, the _Pride of Terra_. Its hull was battered and scored with deep, simmering burns. The ship was alight in several places.

It was not alone. Closely following it was a second, larger vessel; though not as sleek as the first craft, what it lacked in speed, it more than made up in sheer bulk. The heavily modified _Hammer Class Battlekroozer,_ one of the rarest in existence due to it's size is highly uncommon, glided hungrily after the _Terra_, powering forward with murderous intent. Almost instantaneously its forward batteries began to open up, lancing out toward the rear of the _Terra_. The smaller Battleship's void shields flared, flickered, and then died altogether. There was a disquieting rumbling sound, and the _Terra's _weapon systems fell abruptly silent.

"Shields down!" announced one of the Servitors manning a side display, his grotesque disfigured fingers somehow dancing across the controls, "Weapon systems are offline, Lord Inquisitor!"

The situation was beyond grim. The lighting on the bridge pulsed erratically, and for a moment it looked as though the warship might lose power completely. Lord Inquisitor Weyland of the Ordo Hereticus had earned command of this vessel twelve long years ago, through assuming Command after the original Captain was killed in his service to the Emperor. It had been his greatest hour, to be remembered as a hero of the Imperium for generations to come. Another explosion rocked the bridge. Now that time was at an end.

Weylan dug his fingernails deep into the rests of his command throne in silent rage, but his voice remained steady, resolute. He had little choice. To show nothing less than total concentration, even in the face of this dire situation, would doom them all.

"Engine status?" he enquired smoothly.

"Holding, Lord Inquisitor. We have restored Void shields, by-" A warble of static flooded the Battle-Net for a moment, "-but for how long, I cannot estimate."

"And the Gellar Shields?" his voiced laced with worry, should they fail, they need not worry about the Orks anymore. "Holding as well, thank the Omnissiah."

Weyland cast an eye about the bridge. It was beginning to flood with smoke. Several of the Servitors and human crews manning their stations had already fallen prey to malfunctioning consoles as the ship's systems overloaded.

They had barely made it through the accursed Warp, such was the delicate matter of said Immaterium. Now, here in this unknown system, the _Terra_- the sum of his life's work weeding out heretics and vile Genestealer Cults across countless Systems - was finished. Here, they would be defeated, without incident, and without vengeance. Where his career had begun with glorious triumph, here, it would end with naught but a whimper, a tiny footnote in some inglorious history tome. Weyland's eyelids narrowed to slits.

_Unless…_

"Divert full power from our engines, and reroute everything to the rear Void shields on my mark!" barked the Lord Inquisitor, his zeal and the tactician in him beginning to shine, "By the Emperor Of Man, I will not see us run down without a fight!"

"But Lord Inquisitor...nearly all our weapon systems have failed: we barely survived the transition from the Warp!" protested the helmsman. "We have no other means with which to combat the enemy!"

"Silence!" Weyland bellowed, hammering his clenched fist against the seat rest, "We still have our honour and our own two hands! In the name of the Emperor, I shall visit pain upon those who would betray us, even if it requires me climbing aboard their vessel and un-seaming their entrails in person! Now do as I say, helmsman, and do not hesitate!"

There was a pause. Seldom did the Lord Inquisitor lose his temper. 300 years of service taught one alot about anger management. Calmer now, Weyland took this time to key the Vox net, issuing one final instruction. For the first time in many years, Lord Inquisitor Weyland of the Ordo Hereticus, smiled.

"All hands, brace for impact."


	4. Chapter 4

Aboard the larger vessel, Nutkraka, captain of the _Gutwrencher _and Warboss of the _WAAAGH! Dorkka_, rubbed his green meaty fists together in anticipation at the view screen before him.

Their prey was trailing long streamers of flame in its wake. Its weapon systems had failed, leaving it all but helpless. The best it could do was limp, lamely, away from Nutkraka's mighty warship; only delaying the inevitable.

It was this moment of the _WAAAGH!_ that he enjoyed most: that sacred moment before the kill, when his weapon was raised, and he could taste the bloodlust on his very breath, along the _Dakka _unleashed upon the unlucky adversaries. It was time to deliver the killing blow.

Nutkraka had already been denied this moment far too long. The_ Humies _were loathsome runts; lacking the purity of the_ Ork'z_ brutal might, but they had defied his pursuit admirably. Nutkraka could almost respected their stubborn determination, if nothing else. Still, it was time to finish this. He motioned to the _Gretchins_ and _Ork boyz_ manning the weapons station.

"Eyestompa, hold your fire." Nutkraka began, with a grin as he leaned back in his command throne with relish. He would savour this victory. "Vox Boyz, open a channel with the Humie vessel. Ask if they have any final words to impart with us prior to their leaving of this galaxy."

"Yes Boss, I'z doing it now…" Parakh, the communications officer paused, then frowned, "Boss, there is encoded message from the Humies….addressed to you personally…"

Brainmasha, a silver-flecked senior manning the weapons station, snorted in raucous amusement, "Maybe they iz wantz to surrender. Haha!"

A wave of snide laughter rippled across the bridge. Brainmasha had always been popular with the pack. It would be wise to kill him soon, Nutkraka noted. Eager to re-assert his authority, Nutkraka raised his voice and barked over the cackling of his crew.

"Then we shall have some fun with them, before we blast those gits with dakka." Nutkraka bared his fangs eagerly, amber eyes glittering. "Read it."

Parakh's brow rippled in confusion as his eyes digested the contents of the message. Warboss Nutkraka leaned forward, displeased with the hesitation.

"Boss…" Parakh trailed off, his voice perplexed.

"Well, what does it say, ya git?" The Warboss hissed impatiently. "Out with it!"

Parakh's brow remained knotted, "Well met, Greenskins, scourge of da humie race…"

Parakh twisted about and stared blankly at the Warboss.

"…Boss, what does it mean?"

An unsettling jolt ran shivers up along the hide of Nutkraka' spine. His hairs stood on end. Nutkraka had seldom encountered this feeling before. It was strange, alien. It was the feeling of a _WAAGH!_ gone wrong; of a hunter becoming the prey. He eyed the view-screen closely. The _Terra_seemed puny, insignificant: its weapons were silent, its engines all but crippled. Surely such a lame vessel could pose no threat, not to the _Gutwrencher _and it's big dakka! If anything, the _Terra_ had stopped moving entirely.

The realisation struck Nutkraka like a Nob's Choppa. By then, it was too late.

"Reinforce the forward-"

Nutkrakas bellow was drowned out as the _Pride Of Terra_ ploughed engines-first into the mouth of the _Gutwrencher_. The _Gutwrencher's_ shield buckled under the immense impact instantly. There was an awful crunching sound, as the super-heated engines chewed deeply into the Battlekroozer's front hull. Multiple hull breaches exploded across the surface of the _Gutwrencher's_ prow, its superstructure compacting against the lighter warship with an aching groan.

Then one of the _Terra'_s engines detonated.

The explosion was catastrophic. Fully a third of the _Terra_ was obliterated outright. Hundreds on both vessels were vaporised in an instant. Those vaporised were the most fortunate. Dozens more fell prey to hull breaches as the rest of the ship peeled away. Gretchin, Squigs, Snotlings and unlucky Guardsmen and Space Marines, thrashing and shrieking, were ripped out into the cold void, spinning them off into freezing oblivion. Radiation, unleashed in the wake of the devastation visited upon the engine core, swept through the lower decks of the _Terra_ like a cancer, irradiating every crew member therein. Those that did not die instantly would succumb over the next few weeks, subject to a cruel and pitiless fate.

The _Gutwrencher_, despite its superior tonnage and condition, fared no better. With its weapon systems still powered up, and its ship based weapons already on the brink of overheating, the Battlekroozer was racked with a violent chain reaction of internal explosions which arced across the sides of the ship. Exposed to the full brunt of the _Terra's_ engine detonation, large sections of the _Implacable's_ frontal superstructure ignited and began to burn from within. Fire scoured through the forward decks.

Warboss Nutkraka ordered all emergency hatches sealed, content to let those trapped within die so that the rest of the ship might live. It was a decision as inspired as it was ruthless. Indeed, some said later that the Nutkraka even allowed himself a smile when issuing the order. For days afterward, the immolated corpses of Ork boyz choked the corridors. Still, the flames were contained. Nutkraka's leadership, though mercilessly cruel, had saved the ship. Twice, the stricken _Gutwrencher_ had to switch to emergency power, before eventually, twenty minutes later, it managed to restore itself to a relatively stable orbit above the planet.

Meanwhile, the remainder of the _Pride of Terra_, dragging with it a long plume of azure fire, hurtled toward New Geneva in a graceless spin.


	5. Chapter 5

Ironically, the city of Horizon, once romantically labelled by the Confederacy Of Man's Expansion Corps as the "_Furthest Frontier of the Terrans_", did not make for a particularly inviting sight.

Like most of the Fringe Worlds, the city's design emphasised functionality over visual-aesthetic. Within the pesky foliage assaulting the perimeter walls sprawled a jumbled labyrinth of air-processing plants, steel gantries and skeletal refineries. mud and grass caked everything a ruddy orange-brown and mucky green. Bulky ventilators clustered on each and every rooftop, like spines on a concrete dinosaur, humming and thrumming as they laboured to keep the streets clean of grit.

With the current winds lashing over Horizon, most of the power lines and cables were toppled and in some cases, crashed on top of a house. Mantainace crews scurried to and fro, clad in vibrant yellow anti-static suits, burdened with the unenviable task of trying to prevent the city from being bereft of electricity. To their relief, the Northern winds were beginning to die down.

Around each of the buildings snaked a series of thick pipelines, carrying fuel, wiring and - most crucially - the city's water supply. Above, a complex rail network wove its way around the city, bathing the streets beneath it in almost perpetual shadow. Freight cars trundled about almost constantly. Though noisy, the shade cast by the track provided welcome respite from the ever-burning sun. With a population of just under four point two million colonists, most of them hardened terraformers, it served as a practical place for practical people.

And young Sandra Jennison _hated_ it.

She _hated_ the filtered water, she _hated_ the winds, she _hated_ the wet icky grass, and the noise of the cargo trains. She _hated_ the way there was always rain and - most of all - she _hated_ the way Mom had to work all the time. At eight years of age, Sarah was distressingly well versed at hating things. In fact, the only talent she had which eclipsed this was her voracious ability to write lists. Unfortunately, the evolution of this habit - naturally - was to make lists about the things she hated. These were extensive.

She was doing this right now. Nestled underneath the shelter of a wind-slapped water tower, shrouded in the thick folds of her Dad's old environmental suit, she hummed to herself peacefully. The sound muffled oddly within the confines of the rubbery hood. This was her favourite spot. Here, she could sit, just at the edge of the starport's landing strip, and watch the soldiers' ships sitting neatly in a row. She liked the open space, and the big tower building, and the sound the ships made when they took off. She already had several nice lists about it.

Most of all, however, Sandra liked looking at remains of the big ship - the one Mom had called a Minatour Class BattleCruiser,_ Ank-eye-sus_ - and dream about going on wild adventures across the galaxy. Maybe someday she would even find her Dad again through those adventures.

Sandra shook herself. She had work to do, lists to make. Squinting through her thick goggles, she took a deep, solemn breath and inscribed a big meaty "1" on the top of her notepad. The crayon was a deep red, satisfyingly thick. Sarah frowned, intently considering her next move.

Where to start? No, not the grass, that was _too _obvious. The mud? Hmm, no, that's too easy too. Although the mud _did_ make her eyes water… but the winds seemed to be easing off.. and...

Abruptly, she stopped scrawling. Something was going on. She wasn't sure what it was. Certainly, she couldn't put her finger on it. Not at first. She looked around, straining her ears. Ah, that was it, she smiled, tremendously pleased with herself for having identified what it was.

It was a sound. Not like the constant _vum-vum-vum_ sound of the filters, or the rickety _chug-chug-chug _of the train. No, it was something deeper than just a sound. You didn't just hear it; you _felt_ it too, like a rumbling in your tummy. That was it: a really deep _rumbling._ Curious, Sarah pulled herself up to her feet, and ambled over to the edge of the water tower's shadow. Ducking under the support struts, she risked stepping out into the open air. Sarah looked up, and gasped.

The sky was on fire.

To her, it was beautiful. A graceful, glistening comet of blue fire and oily purple, of sooty smoke and sound and thunder. Transfixed, Sndra tottered backward, tripped, and unceremoniously fell on her rump. She could not tear her eyes away. Despite the wicked winds which still vented down the streets, people began to poke their heads out from triple-glazed windows. Being older than Sandra, and more versed in the universe in which grown-ups lived, they began whispering amongst themselves. Being grown-ups, they did not share Sarah's sense of wonderment.

Like a ripple in a pool of water, the whispering spread. It was a hushed sound, full of tension and excitement. And fear. Many began murmuring long-forgotten prayers from long-forgotten faiths, quietly hoping, no, praying it was all just an illusion. In the distance, klaxons began to wail. Sandra, oblivious to the terror that gripped the city around her, smiled. She sat down, opened a new page on her notebook, titled it "Things I like", and began to sketch the comet in the sky with earnest.

To her, New Geneva had finally become interesting.


	6. Chapter 6

Flight Officer Jerry O' Niel had been waiting for almost an hour before he realised nobody was coming to debrief him.

The short flight officer was perched atop one of the Navy's standard issue chairs, furniture which seemed to be specifically designed to render your standard issue buttocks devoid of any feeling. Perry privately wondered if it was all an obscure test of some kind, designed by some particularly sadistic Dominion Intelligence scientist.

Then chaos erupted. Further up the corridor, the Major's door exploded open, and Major Gerard Ashton himself stalking up the corridor, roaring an endless stream of instructions into his com-link. His blood-shot expression was even more haggard than usual, but he seemed tremendously animated, excited. Behind him, like a fussing shadow, hurried Second Lieutenant Burbatoff, who was intently reciting facts and figures from an incessantly bleeping data-pad. Following Burbatoff hurried a trio of junior officers, their expressions taut and pale. None of them were consulted.

The difference between the two senior officers was striking. Where the major was sweaty, hulking and decorated with three days of silvery-stubble, Burbatoff was clean-cut, short and compact; the very epitome of military-trim. Another key difference was that he did not have a cigar jutting out from the corner of his mouth. The Major paid his XO little attention, pausing his tirade only to check a fact or confirm an estimate. Jerry bolted to his feet, snapping a tight salute as the five officers swept past.

All of them ignored him.

The sight would have been comical, had the Major not suddenly halted just as he was about to round the corridor. Burbatoff and his coterie almost collided into him, each of them making an admirable attempt at looking unsurprised at the sudden stop.

Abruptly, Abelev turned, plucked the cigar from his mouth and pointed a meaty finger back down the corridor. With a jolt, Jerry realised he was pointing at him. What followed was not so much a conversation as a series of growled instructions.

"You! Jerry, right? Good. Follow me son. Work to do."

And with that the collection of officers vanished around the corner. As Jerry scooped up his flight helmet and scurried after them, emergency sirens began to blare in the distance.

_On the bright side_, Jerry thought to himself, _at least he knows my name._

The briefing room, such as it was, was adequate, if nothing else.

Originally designed for civic planning presentations, it was a semi-circular chamber at the summit of the starport's tower. It was a gloomy room, arrayed in a series of three tiers, each rising in width as they expanded. A large display monitor dominated the far wall. Naval officers, militia commanders and local representatives filled the chamber, whispering fiercely amongst each other. Rumours and frenzied speculation spread like wild-fire.

The door slid open. There was a fluttering sound as thirty military personnel sprang to attention simultaneously. The other twenty or so, civilians all, also shuffled to their feet.

Major Ashtonand Second-Lieutenant Burbatoff strode straight down to the presentation area. Jerry, for his part, meekly stood in the darkest corner at the back of the room.

Ashton stepped forward to address the crowd, and returned the room's collective salute smartly, much to Burbatoff's visible relief. Somewhere along the way from his office to the briefing room, the cigar had vanished. He almost looked respectable.

Ashton squinted up into the projector lights which shone down upon him, eyeing the crowd before him as he scratched his stubble thoughtfully. Nobody spoke. After a pause, the Major broke the silence.

"Can all non-essential personnel please vacate the room." Ashton stated.

That was the Major at his most courteous. Even the eternally-stiff Burbatoff looked taken aback by the display.

Nobody moved. Ashton scowled.

"I said get out." he spat, "That's an order, not a request."

There was an eruption of indignant protests, mainly from the civilians present. Ashtons withering stare and bunched jaw silenced them quickly. Tellingly, all of the junior marine officers present had already left, without hesitation or complaint. The crowd began to file out, and a confused Perry turned to join them.

"Not you, Terminator." a gloved hand fell heavily upon his shoulder. "It's your lucky day."

Perry turned around, and suppressed the urge to yelp. Barely. Lurking right behind him was a fully armoured Dominion Heavy Commando, all impassive reflective golden visor and glittering weaponry. With his rusty, sand caked red armour, he hard time trying to blend with the shadows of the dark room. Yet he'd been standing there the entire time, and Jerry hadn't even realised it. The name "McTavish" was stencilled on both his shoulder plates.

"W-we've met before?" Jerry managed; conscious of the high-pitched pique his voice had taken on.

"Yeah, you've run my boys out on field exercises." the man's voice was jovial, even through the filters of his fully-encased helmet, "Wasn't wearing the full show-suit then, mind you." The soldier rapped his name-tag with his knuckles, before proffering his hand.

"Staff Sergeant Barett McTavish, 510th Bullfrogs. Call me Tavish."

"Jerry O' Niel. Nice to meet you, Tavish."

Jerry accepted the soldier's oversized armored hand and shook it, doing his best not to wince as the marine's vice-like grip ground the bones in his hand to a fine paste.

Perry found it disconcerting to have a conversation with a fully reflective visor: all it did was reflect his own terrified expression. The Heavy Commando, unfortunately, seemed to be enjoying the exchange thoroughly. The pilot was beginning to suspect the man was mentally unhinged altogether. _You'd want to be, if you jumped out into space without a parachute for a living._

Perry opened his mouth to say something, but the major was beginning his briefing.

"Come on down, everyone, I'd rather not have to shout." Ashton's beckoned everyone closer, his torn mouth twisted in a vague feature of a smile. Even without the scar-tissue, the expression was forced, strained.

They gathered around on the lowest tier. Ten men and women in total, a collection of the most influential people in the colony. And Jerry. Many of those present represented fundamental trade-skills: civil engineers, technical advisors - aspects crucial to the successful operation of any colony.

Among them was Administrator Abbey Jennison, a graceful woman who would have been attractive, had the stress of administrating the colony not worn her grey years ago. Jerry knew that she'd lost her husband some months ago, one of the first to disappear on the outer patrols. Now, crows' feet tugged at her eyes, and her manner these days was usually reserved, frosty. Her way of coping, Jerry guessed. Nevertheless, when Jennison spoke, people listened. Like everyone else on the colony, the pilot respected her immensely.

"Major Ashton, I thank you for your attempts at keeping us calm," Jennison began, "But I would ask you for a frank assessment of our ability to deal with this threat." The ghost of a smile touched her lips. "No bullshit."

"Straight to business, ma'am, I like it." Ashton's awkward smile blossomed to an honest grin, "As you know, I'm just a straight-to-God ground pounder, so I'm gonna step aside and let the space-jockeys brief you on what it is we're dealing with, before I give you my take on things."

Ashton motioned for one of the men, a thin man dressed in a singed Navy command uniform, to step forward.

Lieutenant Commander Harrold Shu was the ranking naval officer on the planet. Like many of the surviving senior crewmembers, the skin on his face had been partially disfigured by plasma burns - the after effects of the near-destruction _Anchises'_ bridge at Korhal during the Queen Of Blade's treachery. Despite the lack of naval assets available on the planet, his presence was not simply out of courtesy toward protocol: former navy crewmen made up a large percentage of the current Colonial Militia serving on New Geneva.

Ashton slid a data-chip into the briefing podium in front of him, and then nodded toward Shu. On the display above, a blurry image of the crippled and battered ship of some kind flickered into view. Shu's voice was strong, confident. Jerry could see why such a young man had advanced so quickly through the Navy's ranks.

"This image was taken seventeen minutes ago, by one of the starport's automated scanning posts. I have to apologise for its quality."

He let the image sink in with his audience.

"Even to us, this ship is of unknown origin, but we do know, it's a warship from the look of those guns sticking out here, here, and here. This could be the start of a First Contact scenario with another intelligent life, but still a real nasty piece of work. We don't know if these things vary in size but you're looking at about 5028 metres of superior combat vessel, give or take. Its crew size, unfortunately, is unknown, but it's estimated at being somewhere between twenty or fifty thousand."

"As you can see, it's heavily damaged. From what, we don't know - our main scanners systems are still hit and miss ever since the winds from the planet's Northern Hemisphere hit. We estimate that it crashed down about fifty clicks east of Horizon. As for the cause of the crash, that's also unknown."

The display shifted. An illustration of a the archiac looking ship began to rotate on the screen, a steam of data scrolling down beside it, projecting a myriad of estimates.

"You mentioned an estimate twenty or fifty hundred," One of the engineers folded his arms and sounded sceptical, "Surely we outnumber them easily - New Geneva has a population of nearly five million!"

Shu smiled patiently.

"That unknown ship isn't what really scares me." The display shifted to show an image of a far larger vessel, lurking just above the planet. A hushed gasp shot out across the chamber.

"This is another unknown vessel, which we believe is chasing it - it's about three times larger, and is currently in low orbit on the far side of New Geneva. For now, we've dubbed the two, Little Boy and Big Boy."

Shu's voice was low as he continued.

"I should add that this vessel doesn't just scare me - it terrifies me. If and when they touch down on the surface, ladies and gentlemen, we are lookign at a planetary invasion and also caught in the crossfire between two species. We are going to be grossly out-classed and out-numbered."

Ashton cleared his throat, his rheumy eyes taking in all those around him.

"Which is where I take over. You mentioned Horizon's population being around five million. You forget that only about a a mere tenth of the populaation is comprised of viable, combat-ready militia personnel, and that's only provided we implement a draft." Ashton shook his head grimly, "You're also forgetting that these are unknown hostiles we're gonna be facing. They're damn well gonna be better armed, and they will fight smart. Needless to say, anything which gets discussed here does not leave this room."

"About the militia... make it about half of us willing to fight, Major." Jennison spoke up, "Granted, we're a third-generation colony, but many of the original settlers will step forward to fight, if need be. We can make a difference."

"Not without proper training you won't." Burbatoff sniffed.

"Proper training?" A filtered voice spoke up. "Some of the hardest bastards I ever fought alongside never had any proper training. Just guns with a whole lotta balls behind 'em."

It was the Heavy Commando, McTavish. The Lieutenant balked at the soldier's insubordination, but the sight of the fully-armed and suited commando put any remark he would have made invalid. Everyone turned and looked at McTavish.

An awkward silence descended.

McTavish seemed to realise he'd put his foot in it. He held up his hands in an apologetic, non-threatening fashion. A strange sight, considering he was armed to the teeth.

"Uh, permission to speak, I mean. Sir." he blushed, thankful to be hidden behind the Gold-coloured visor.

Jerry fought to hide a grin. The Heavy Commandos were the best of the best, next to the Ghosts but their elite status often branded them as cowboys, fire-brands both on and off the battlefield. He'd heard the stories, and this McTavish confirmed every one of them.

"Knock yourself out, Marine." Ashton arched an eyebrow, sharing in everyone else's amusement. The Heavy Commando inclined his head respectfully, his helmet clicking with the gesture.

"Sir, with the utmost respect to the El-Tee - these people carved a colony out of nothing but rock and sand. They've already got the prerequisite survival skills. Plus they know how to dig in. You give me three weeks of honest time; I'll have my boys whip 'em into shape. We got CMC-300s and ammunition much much more than we have men, and 3 major fabricators to produce more ammunition"

Abelev pursed his lips, considering. By tasking the Heavy Commandos with training the local militia, the overall city's defence would benefit from their extensive experience. On the flip-side, it meant not being able to deploy the most potent offensive tool in his arsenal. He turned toward Burbatoff.

"Lieutenant, what's our current strength?"

Burbatoff's summary, as ever, was nothing if not efficient.

"Two full strength Companies - Alpha and Charlie - as well as the leftovers from Bravo: they've lost quite a few these past few weeks - so we're numbered at 240 active marines, factoring in the recent MIAs."

The heavy-set Major considered this, resting his hands on the podium. His jaw was set in concentration. Finally, he spoke.

"Alright, let's shuffle it up - three new platoons, forty men in each. Same platoon designations as before. Charlie and Bravo get to keep the home fires burning. I want this place locked down tight."

"And Alpha Company?" Burbatoff asked, data-pad in hand.

"They go hunting." Ashton grinned. Then he pointed at McTavish. "Alright, soldier, we're compromising: we don't have a week, so you've got four days to forge our happy residents from being well behaved and eating apple pie to spitting nails and kicking ass. Understood?"

"Everything but the apple pie reference, Sir." McTavish saluted.

"Good," Ashton clapped his hands together. "Alright people, we have a plan, let's get to it."


	7. Chapter 7

Fifty-three kilometres east of Horizon, a ragged trench of fire and smoking metal tore deep into the desert floor. The surrounding greenery had been branded a scorched black. At the end of this trench, the _Pride of Terran_, a once-proud and regal warship of the Imperium Of Man, now resembled a grotesque bleached whale. It had sunk down into the sand, like a smouldering meteor. The ship's surface was cracked and pitted; the archiac dusty-brown hull plating all but sheered away from the violent, tumbling impact. For hundreds of meters around, a minefield of burning debris sizzled in the morning sun. Inside, things were a stark contrast.

There was darkness; total and absolute.

Above him, lights flickered. He felt distant heat, and could dimly hear the soft crackling of flames. Slowly, the world began to swirl its way back into focus. Something groaned.

Weyland realised it was him. His fingers groped about for a handhold. He felt the edge of a seat, his grip biting deep into the cushioning. The Lord Inquisitor hauled himself back up into his command throne groggily. Warning icons on his eyepiece fizzled as he suffered minor injuries to his augmented body.

"Status...Status report!" Weylan croaked.

Nobody answered. Like all Imperium warship, the ship's bridge was comfortably nestled at the front of the ship. As such, it was the most structurally vulnerable location, was not impervious to all external damages. That so many of the bridge crew had been tossed about like rag dolls did actually bode well.

Unlike Weyland, the bridge crew did not have the luxury of a command throne, and so found themselves piled in an ungainly heap at the far end of the chamber. Thankfully, most were still breathing. Their combat harnesses had saved their lives.

The first to recover was the helmsman, Zakary Oslo. He moaned, coughed, and rolled over onto his back, nursing a hand over his chest protectively. His normally polished crimson armour had been scalded black in several places. Weyland staggered over toward him, extending a helpful hand.

"It seems as though we made it here in one piece, Helmsman," Weyland observed wryly, "No thanks to your piloting."

Zakary chuckled darkly as he grabbed the Shipmaster's wrist, hauling himself to his feet.

"My apologies, Lord." Zakary retorted, "Next time I shall try and land without the ship's engines exploding and pissing the machine spirits off."

"I look forward to it."Weyland replied, clapping him on the shoulder. "See to the others, we must act quickly."

Zakary saluted, and moved off to help the other crew. Footsteps of booted feet approached him from behind, Weyland craned his neck around and spoke a single name over his shoulder.

"Brother Captain Rafael."

True enough, when the Lord Inquisitor turned around, there stood a heavily scarred Space Marine of the Ultramarines, his head bowed in reverence. Rafael Torfan's left eye had burst in the impact. Thick crimson liquid dripped down from his wound onto his chest plate, staining the Aquilla. If it bothered him, he gave no sign.

"Well met, my Lord." Rafael's voice was a lethal whisper. Fitting, given his status as a Captain of the Ultramarines.

"You are injured." Weyland noted.

"The wound is inconsequential, my Lord." Rukth shook his head, "It shall not impede me."

"Nothing ever does. Our status?"

"Grim. We have lost most of our power, though rudimentary life support remains. Regrettably, all hatches and grav-lifts have ceased functioning. Were it not for our Power Swords, and the strength of the the Emperor whom my brothers are blessed with, we could have found ourselves entombed within our own vessel."

Rafael paused to swipe some blood away from his cheek bones before continuing.

"The air in the lower decks is thick with the taste of radiation - I dare not risk my remaining men in further investigation, but we must assume that most of the Servitors and Guardsmen onboard have fallen prey to its taint."

Weyland listened to the news sombrely. Though like all Inquisitors, he viewed the Guardsmen as expendable yet reliable tools, but he took no pleasure in hearing their fate. His crew deserved better. Sensing this, the darker Elite's mandibles tightened in discomfort.

"I… am sorry to say, Inquisitor Weyland, but your ship shall not travel the stars again."

"I expected as much."Weyland's voice was resigned, but any bitterness he might have felt did not show, "The _Pride of Terra_ might have come to an end, but that does not mean I shall allow its crew to meet the same fate. We will avenge its name, and those that have given their lives in HIS service."

Rafael nodded in approval.

"It is good that you do not lose clarity, my Lord. I have sent my men to scour a path through the vessel. Already, your personal Terminator bodyguards have cleaved their way toward the starboard passages."

"You managed to convince them to abandon the bridge?" Weyland could not hide his surprise. The Lord Inquisitor's two bodyguards were enigmatic, and all but incomprehensible at the best of times, but their sense of duty was unquestionable, almost to a fault.

Rafael grinned, gesturing toward a gaping hole where the bridge's main entrance used to be. The melted seams of metal still glowed white-hot from where a twinned pair of Assault Cannons had liquefied the blast-door.

"Only after they had been assured of your safety." Rafael explained, with a smirk.

Weyland twitched his lips in a grateful smile, and then stepped over to the edge of the command dais. Below, a battered assembly of shell-shocked Guardsmen and Space Marines of the Ultramarines had assembled. Despite widespread injury, their eyes were watchful and strong, full of determination. The sight filled him with pride. Raising his voice, he addressed them in words befitting the rank of a Lord Inquisitor. His voice was coolly-modulated, deep and solemn.

"My brothers, and sisters, we have been dealt a great blow this day, the Veridian Sigma system has no doubt fallen to the wretched Orks." He made a sweeping gesture indicating the battered bridge around them. "Even now, our great vessel lies in ruins. We are the victims of a terrible deceit. Of treachery most foul."

Weyland Croff's voice rose in volume. A master orator, every word was crafted, each syllable carefully selected for the most import. The glowing eyes of his face seemed to burn with passion, as though fuelled by a great fire within. For years afterward, his words would be remembered as one of the defining moments of the New Geneva campaign.

"Consider, my Brothers, the name of our vessel. _The Pride of __**Terra**_. It is the name of _our_ home, the name of _our_ people. That ship is broken now, all but shattered in the wake of a terrible injustice. Its weapons shall remain silent. Its title shall reap victories no longer. But do I despair in this, Brothers? Do I bow down, and accept the fate thrust upon us? Never!"

Weyland's hands balled into fists.

"Because the title of our ship is just that - a title, and nothing more. It is defined not by the words that compose it, but rather the inspiration behind their very choosing! Integrity, honour, discipline...Faith- each of these traits set us apart from the gutless dogs who would seek to crush us underfoot. Do I lament my vessel's passing? Yes, and I shall repay them thrice-fold for what they have done!"

Weyland's eyes met with each of the crew in turn.

"But I do not despair. For I know that each of those same qualities are exhibited by the men and women I see before me. It is your integrity, discipline and honour that are instrumental to our success, nay; our very _survival_ as a species. For many years, you have served with me aboard this vessel. We have fought many battles together, you and I, won many victories. You have never failed me. Now, more so than ever before, I would ask that you follow me into battle as diligently as you have done in the past. And so I ask you: _are you with me, my brothers and sisters?_ Will you take up arms by my side, and follow me to victory once more?"

"Until our dying breath, my Lord, for the Emperor and the Glory of His Imperium!" one of the Space Marines shouted. There was a booming chorus of assent. Many thumped their fists against their chest-plates in vehement approval. The Shipmaster nodded slowly, satisfied.

"I could ask for no finer answer. Your orders are as follows. Rally the crew, head for the exits. The Greenskins shall be upon us shortly, and I do not intend for us to be easy prey."

He paused, then flexed the grip moulded to his right hand. There was a snap-hiss as a sleek double-edged Power Sword flared into being, casting everything around it in a faint blue glow. He held it aloft, and bellowed.

"Should the foul Xenos even dare to try and sink their vile weapons on us; the only thing they shall discover is that the price paid was not worth the fighting!"

All around him, the Guardsmen and Space Marines howled their defiance against overwhelming odds.


	8. Chapter 8

Warboss Nutkraka was furious. Already, he had bludgeoned an orderly to death for having the foolishness to deliver a negative status report in person.

All across the _Gutwrencher,_ plasma batteries had fused into twisted lumps of blackened slag. What was left of the front-portside firing crews was all but unrecognisable. The forward energy lances, each one of them glowing borderline critical, lay inert and impotent. Swarms of Gretchins and Mekboyz rushed to appease the ailing ship. Most of those systems would never recover, such was damage wrought by the catastrophic collision.

Nutkraka' personal guard, ensconced in majestic golden armour, dragged the hapless orderly's corpse from the Warboss' sight. Trailing behind them was a long streak of blood and Ork skull fragments.

Even now, a full two hours after the disaster,Nutkraka's rage had not abated. The Warboss was a towering mass of rippling green hide and muscle. Heavy streaks of regal silver flecked his shaggy coat, denoting his seniority. To those with a less discerning eye, his crude power armor, a deep ebony chased with fiery-red and burnished gold, erased all doubt of his supremacy amongst the pack. He lashed out at a passing Gretchen, who ducked and fled with a shrill squeal of terror. Everyone else on the bridge withdrew another few steps.

They knew better than to approach the Warboss when his blood was up.

The instigating factor behind this insurmountable fury was not the destruction visited upon the front of his vessel, nor was it the casualties suffered. No, Warboss' reasons were far more personal. The fire control station adjacent to his command throne had exploded: his coat had been singed. The skin on his arm, once proud and full, was now patchy and scorched in places. The smell of burnt hair made his nostrils twitch, infuriating him further. This latest insult dealt by the puny Humies was personal. It would not go unpunished.

"Oy, where are me Nobs?" Nutkraka snapped, clenching and unclenching his fists.

Six heavily armoured warriors clattered hastily into the room. Like Nutkraka, they wore heavily gilded armour, though theirs was far less ostentatious than his own. _As it should be_, Nutkraka thought with a sneer.

Each Nob's armour was individual; the variations subtle and nuanced. Some wore a more simplistic combination of red and black, others a deeply reflective bronzed-gold. They had all been marked and carved to reflect past triumphs during a WAAGH! in a style custom the point where no two were alike.

Indeed, the only thing each Warboss had in common was the weapons they carried. Most of them carried Assault canons, long-barrelled bazooka pieces capable of unparallel destruction, whilst others wielded monstrous choppas, the ubiquitous symbol of Alpha-Ork status. Warboss narrowed his eyes at them scornfully.

"Ey, Where's are HumieEater and SmallToes?" Nutkraka growled, "They wantz a smash to the heads eh?"

"Boss…" Nob Skullbreaka kept his head bowed and his voice grave, "I'z sorry to say both da Nobs got burnt when ship exploded."

"Then they are fools and incompetents gits!" Nutkraka crowed dismissively, "Replace them with Ork boyz who's got big dakka and choppa."

"Yes boss, I'z doing it now." Skullbreaka grunted.

Appeased by this show of deference, Nutkraka folded his arms across his chest, and began to pace in front of his assembled Nobs.

"Da Humie ship has crashed on the planet below us. Scans show that much of their ship remains intact. Survivors, most likely few, are likely. No doubt da Humies will try and run into the surrounding area, like the puny cowards they have proven themselves to be. One of you will bring some of da Boyz and smash them while we stabilise matters here. Who wantz to go?"

All six Nobs stepped forward without hesitation. Nutkraka snuffled, bemused, and then selected one at random. It was Tinyblower, one of his own kin.

"You, Tinyblower. Step forward."

Tinyblower, one of the youngest of the Ork Nobs present, un-slung his cannon and stepped forward. His bronze armour was a relatively unscarred, compared to the others behind him: a reflection of his comparative inexperience. The other Alpha Orks' thick hide shifted in displeasure, but sensibly kept it quiet. Nepotism was all too common in their society.

"Do you accept this position?"

"I do, Boss," Tinyblower bowed.

"Good."

Nutkraka turned away as the Nobs filed out, then twisted around.

"Oh, and before me forget, Tinyblower, do something for me, will you?"

"Name it, Boss," Tinyblower said, pausing in the bridge's entryway. "And it shall be so."

"The Humie Cap'n."Nutkraka's eyes glittered maliciously, "Bring me his head: I want to use his bones to sharpen my teeth."

Across the bridge, far away from the assembled Alpha-Jiralhanae, BrainMasha eyed this exchange with barely concealed ambition.


	9. Chapter 9

It was almost midday, and Horizon was busy.

The ravaging winds had cleared, and preparations began in earnest. The New Geneva's militia filled the massive expanse of the starport's hardpan, some sixty thousand recruits. Conscripts by necessity, some of them had handled weaponry before, having served aboard the Terran Dominion BattleCruiser _Anchises_. The majority of the civilians were another matter. Most had never owned a weapon, much less fired one. They wore a jumbled mix of worker overalls, functional jumpsuits and frontier survival gear. Many of them had donned hard-hats and glare-goggles; leftovers from the city's refineries, but it would change though, for some of them would don the CMC-300 Power Armor, reserved for best performing recruits.

With 2.1 million potential volunteers to train, and only a four day time period with which to do so, McTavish had his work cut out for him.

Fortunately, he was not alone. Beside him, the nine other members of his Heavy Commando strike platoon, Special Operations Team Orion, fanned out in a straight line before the seemingly endless horde, their arms clasped neatly behind the small of their backs. All of them were fully suited in oversized dusty red power suits and fully-enclosed dome helmets. The look was suitably impressive, which - of course - was entirely intentional. Instil and inspire, as the Major had said.

Behind him, some thirty off-duty Marines had lined up, as well a few hundred officers from Horizon's original sanctioned militia. Those present were all that could be spared, the rest having been tasked with overseeing the construction of Horizon's perimeter defences. In the distance, McTavish could hear the endless whine of industrial-strength drills. _Comparatively, I have the fun job._

Murphy took a moment to consult his data pad.

The training was to be carried out in massive shift rotations. At any given time, one third of the colony's populace would perform drills under the supervision of qualified military personnel, while another third would engage in digging trenches and setting up emplacements. The remainder would take a six hour rest period, after which the rotation would begin anew.

Their orders were simple. They were to instruct the populace in what Major Ashton had called "Fundamental and Preparatory", which was the technical term for a crash course in basic weapons and ballistics training, how to make use of available cover, proper rationing (of both ammunition and food), as well elementary squad mechanics.

"Some party you've got us hosting, Sarge." Specialist Hobbs muttered over the internal squad-link.

"Just as well I've a pretty face." McTavish grinned, before reaching up and peeling off his helmet. He clipped on a com-headset, fumbling with it momentarily. An ear-splitting blurt of interference warbled from the starport's public address system, and as the awful electronic squeal reverberated about the tarmac, McTavish became the unfortunate recipient of sixty thousand irritated people hissing their displeasure in unison.

Murphy smiled sheepishly, feeling all of two feet tall. Blushing, he spoke into the mic.

"**ERM, SORRY ABOUT THAT!**" McTavish's voice boomed out. All across the city, roosting carrion squawked and fled in terror. Even the commandos cursed.

More hisses. Some booed.

_Yup, definitely relying on that pretty face now_, McTavish thought acidly, as he fumbled with the PA headset's volume settings. Finally getting it under control, he keyed it again.

"Ahem, testing- One, two, one, two… right. Fantastic."

Everyone clapped. There were even some wolf-whistles. Murphy, ever the showman, loved ever single moment of it. He spread his arms wide, like a circus ringmaster, an infectious grin plastered across his face.

"Now then, who's ready to learn 'Badass 101' ?"

* * *

><p>On the far side of the starport, Sandra was hiding.<p>

She was tired of hearing Mommy's periodic messages on the PA. They were meant to sooth the population, and keep everyone focused, but all it did was remind Sarah of how much time she didn't get to see her own mother. Ever since the ship in the sky had appeared, Mom had left her in the care of the local shelter. It was the Responsible Thing to Do, she had said.

And Sarah knew that the Responsible Thing to Do, while sacred to Mommy, was actually boring. Really boring.

And so she played a new game. Clad as usual in Dad's old environment suit, Sandra had snuck out of the shelter, taking with her a survival pack consisting of her drawing pad, her finest crayons and - for Mommy's sake more so than anything else - a generously packed lunch. She knew how silly Mommy would get if she thought Sandra wasn't eating. As resourceful as ever, Sandra had managed to sneak across the city to her favourite spot. The grown-ups so busy fussing about, they didn't notice her as she carefully picked her way through the lines of idle spaceships.

It was there that she found her new hiding place.

Suddenly, she could hear urgent, voices, and the clomping of heavy boots. There came a hissing sound, the sound of a hatch sealing, and with a panicked start, Sarah realised she was trapped. A brave girl, just like her Dad, she didn't panic for long. Instead she smiled.

Secreted away aboard Pelican Kilo-Five-Seven, stashed within an empty equipment locker, Sandra Jennison was finally going on a real adventure.


	10. Chapter 10

High in the sky above the ruined hulk of the _Pride of Terra_, a trio of dots appeared. From a distance, one could have been forgiven for thinking they were simple carrion, to be forgotten in an instant. As the shapes grew closer however, and began to resolve themselves into more defined shapes, it became clear that these were far more dangerous than any vulture.

The Ork Fighter-Bomba were a flying contradiction. In one sense, they were thick-plated vessels designed for shock-and-awe during massive Ork invasion or WAAGH!. True to all Ork design, however, the ships also possessed a crude sense of ingenuity. jagged, swooping lines lent them an elongated aspect. Arranged in tight V-formation, the sun winked off the edges of their gleaming orange-brown hulls as they banked in for an inspection pass.

Aboard the point ship, the _Metal Bitz_, Alpha-Ork Nob Tinyblower rolled his neck about in a lazy circle, cracking his tendons with an audible pop. His fingers drummed idly against the side of his massive assault canon. For the third time in as many minutes, he checked the ammo gauge once again.

It was a nervous habit. Although he would never admit it, the Nob was tense. High expectations had been placed upon him. Tinyblower had received this duty by dint of his status as a direct blood-relative of Warboss Nutkraka himself. The heated whisperings of would-be rivals ran thick throughout the many corridors of the _Gutwrencher_, and this mission was a chance to see them silenced. No longer would his ability be in question.

"Boss, report from our bomba's escort: Humies sighted runnin' for da western canyons." The pilot's voice rasped over the Battle Net, "Permission to smash em?"

Tinyblower reached up and clicked the button attached to the underside of his bronze head-crest.

"Do it." Traelterus ordered. "Smash those humies up!"

Underneath his helmet, Alpha-Ork Nob Tinyblower bared his fangs in a tight smile.

* * *

><p>"Make haste for the canyons!" Weyland urged, "Keep moving! The Orks are almost upon us!"<p>

The survivors of the _Terra's_ crash, some fifty-three Space Marines, Seven Thousand Cadian Guardsmen of the 277th and a Company worth of Inquisitorial Storm Troopers- sticking closely to Weyland himself - the towering Terminator bodyguards, had barely freed themselves from the wreckage when they heard the tell-tale whoosh of anti-grav engines overhead. All semblance of battle order was forgotten as they fled for the shelter of the twisting valleys ahead. They did so not out of cowardice, but out of necessity.

Weyland knew the Ork's brutal strategies well despite his main form of intelligence specializes in heretics not Xenos. They would first try and trap the Humans within the confines of their own vessel, slaughtering all those aboard in as brutal a manner as possible. In the event resistance proved too great, they would simply pen the Humans in, and obliterate the vessel from orbit in one fell stroke.

Failing that, the Ork ground forces would track any surviving refugees as they attempted to flee, making their locations known to the aerial craft which were inevitably to come. With the brute's quarantine broken, the last of the three options was now in play.

The Humans only chance was to get under cover as quickly as possible.

Salvation lay two hundred metres ahead. A thick outcrop of mountainous canyons loomed up across the horizon. A maze of winding passages wormed their way through the rock-face, promising a warren of potential hiding places. If they could get there, the Imperials would be able to mount a reasonable defence, by using the Fighta-Bombas lack of manoeuvrability against them. The alternative was to flee into the open grassy fields, and be massacred accordingly.

Weyland closed his eyes, willing his legs to keep pumping forward. The sound of the Ork's collective engines grew louder. They were out of time.

There was a keening boom as a pair of Fighter-Bomba attack-fighters swooped overhead, spitting a torrent of roaring _Heavy shootas_ from their wingtips. Behind Weyland, Guardsmen wailed haplessly as they were mercilessly strafed.

Fallen Space Marines tumbled to the dirt, their armor overwhelmed and their blessed bodies broken. Enraged, Weyland stopped and pointed at the Bombas circling around for a second attack run, oblivious to the lancing bolts of _heavy shoota_ which rent the ground around him.

"Terminators, turn and address!" he barked. They complied without hesitation.

As one, the Terminator halted, wheeled about, and unleashed a devastating salvo from their assault cannon. One of the Bombas ran straight into it, and its port wing exploded. The fighter was thrown into a reckless spin, before it struck the ground, skipped twice, then erupted in a spectacular fireball. Cheers ran up and down the Imperials rank and file. The second Bomba, wary now at the loss of its wingman, withdrew. Gratified, Weyland led his people into the safety of the waiting canyons.

For the Imperials on New Geneva, the war had finally begun.

* * *

><p>"Kilo-Five-Seven, I am reading multiple contacts in your sector, both airborne and available ground targets. Watch yourself, Terminator."<p>

Jerry adjusted the throttle and flipped on the com. For safety's sake, he also took the liberty of prepping the Grizzly's twin-linked 20mm Guns.

"Acknowledged, Sarajevo, I am in position to set down Fire-team Alpha-One. You just get your boys to the LZ intact, over."

"You telling me how to do my job, Terminator?"

Elina Sanchez, call-sign Sarajevo, was a notoriously bellicose woman. _Cute too_. Such banter was tradition.

"Always will, Sarajevo." Perry grinned. "Terminator out."

Jerry peered of the viewport. In the distance, just off the port-side, he could see Sarajevo delivering her "customers" to Fire-team Alpha-Two's insertion point. Alpha Platoon had been tasked with gauging the condition of the downed unknown warship. Jerry's orders were to set his cargo down in one of the wider valleys west of the crash, and then standby for extraction.

He spied the LZ, an open stretch in the mouth of one of the side valleys. He guided the craft down carefully, setting it down beneath the shade of the overhanging canyon wall. There was a gentle bump-hiss as the landing gear kissed the sandy floor. Jerry powered down all non-essential systems, not wishing to attract any unwanted hostile attention. "Running quiet", as the Navy called it. He then released the magnetic grip-lock holding Fireteam Alpha-One's Stinger LRV. There was a rattling thud as the heavy vehicle fell free.

The hatch behind Jerry slid open. Staff Sergeant Howard poked his head through the doorway. Only the sergeant's mouth and chin were visible beneath his helmet. Like most of the marines on New Geneva, he opted to replace the standard gold visor to the anti-glare models for combat helmet. His lips were drawn, although this was nothing unusual for Howard, who lived up to his reputation as a by-the-book, no-nonsense hard assed resoc.

"Alright, flyboy, you've done your part, just sit your ass tight while we do ours." Howard gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. "I'm leaving Hughey, Perez, Linderman and Mikey here to secure the LZ; you'll reach 'em on TAC-COM Channel 17. They'll keep you safe."

"Roger that," Jerry nodded, tipping the rim of his impact-visor in a casual-salute. Howard nodded then disappeared down the rear dispersal platform without another word.

"Not much of a conversationalist" Jerry quipped, watching as the Stinger trundled away, its four occupants bouncing about as its massive tyres crunched their way across the rocky valley floor. Wispy dust and grass wafted up from the rear hatch, but Perry decided to leave it as it was. His helmet's filters could handle the dust, and the breeze was actually pretty good, once you got past all the sand.

Behind him, something sneezed.

Jerry twisted about in his harness, craning his neck around. He listened. _Did I just imagine that? _The perplexed pilot opened the com channel the sergeant had left with him.

"Hey, Terminator here; did one of you boys hear something?" he asked.

"This is Corporal Mikey, all quiet out here," one of the soldiers replied. "Something up, flyboy?"

"Uh, no, never mind." Perry mumbled sheepishly. He switched off the com.

"You're losing it, O' Neil." Jerry shook his head ruefully, settling back in his chair.

Something sneezed again. This time, he definitely hadn't imagined it. In one motion, Jerry popped the restraints and slid a hand down to the side-arm strapped to his leg. He drew the compact C-7 pistol smoothly, racking the slide. Sliding out of his chair, he approached the source of the sound, weapon raised. It was a non-descript cargo locker, one of four cramped between the pilot's cabin and the "Blood Tray" where the Marines had debarked from. Perry took a deep breath, reached forward, and hauled the locker open.

A yellow bundle burst from the locker in an explosion of tangled limbs and disposed MREs. Jerry yelped and fell back against the far wall. After a moment of heart-stopping terror, he realised it was a child, wrapped in an environmental suit three times too big for her. The little girl was sneezing violently, her eyes watering from the dust.

"'Yellow!" Sandar Jennison beamed. "We're on an adventure!"

Jerry recognised her immediately. After all, she looked just like her mother. At that moment, his brain was only capable of processing two words.

"Oh, _Fuck_." Jerry breathed.


	11. Chapter 11

Above the grassy canyons of New Geneva, death lingered.

The Imperial refugees skulked in the deep shadows offered by the high canyon walls, flattening themselves against the dirt as yet another Ork air patrol shrieked by.

Weyland guided his forces through the tighter chasms, knowing all too well what would happen were they to trek through more exposed terrain. As if to emphasise his point, a ponderous Ork dropship blotted out the sun overhead, its belly-mounted turrets tracking toward the wider passages Weyland had intentionally chosen to avoid.

Weyland froze. The dropship had slowed to a gentle hover right above them. Weyland could even feel the heat from the ship's engine wash upon his skin. Several Guardsmen exchanged uneasy looks, their hands reaching reflexively toward their Lasguns. The Unngoy twitched erratically, scared out of their minds. Only the presence of their Sangheili masters kept them from panicking altogether.

"All forces, hold your fire." Weyland whispered into the Battle Net. "Not a sound."

"That goes double for the Guardsmen," That was Brother-Captain Rafael, from somewhere further down the Imperial line. "If you so much as breathe too loudly, you shall answer to me personally."

With a whirring clank, the side hatches on the dropship yawned open. Weyland could just about make out a mob of Green and the occasional scrap metal on them as armor.. One of the senior Ork shock-troops was sweeping the horizon through the scope of his shoota, looking for targets. Had he the intelligence to check below, he would have found the humans sitting right beneath him.

Zantheus 'Krips, second in command of the Ultramarines' Scout detachment, lined up a shot with his silenced Stalker Bolter. A gifted sniper, it was a guaranteed kill. Weyland placed a hand on his shoulder and shook his head slowly. Reluctantly, Zantheus lowered the rifle. Seemingly frustrated, the Orks ducked back into the dropship The side hatch began to close.

Weyland closed his eyes, relief coursing through his veins

It was then that a rocket hissed up from the adjacent canyon, slamming straight into the closing mouth of the Ork troop carrier. There was a dazzling blossom of fire, and a thunderous boom shook the air. A burning shower of metal, fire and body parts rained down upon the Imperials. Within a heartbeat, all hell had broken loose.

"Hit it again!" Sergeant Howard hollered. He had to shout to be heard over the roaring wind. In the back-seat, Private Griffins struggled to centre the stricken unknown hostile drop-ship, an ugly one at that, in his sights, trying to paint it with the bleeping crosshair. At that speed, this was not an easy task. The target danced giddily in his sights. The Stinger's suspension shook its passengers about like ragdolls. Griffin heard the affirmative _ping_ of a target-lock and squeezed the firing stud.

With a violent _hiss-sneeze_, the rocket banged out of the launcher and up into the sky. It arced into the jagged wound in the dropship's side, prompting a geyser of fire to vomit out both side hatches. The crippled landing craft dropped into a graceless dive, falling out of sight. In the distance, they heard an even larger secondary explosion.

"Hell yeah! That's a confirmed kill!" Griffin whooped, smacking armored palms with the marine next to him. It was his first confirmed kill.

His celebration was premature.

A second dropship rose into view, belly turrets blazing. The driver swore and threw the wheel in a desperate evasive spin. The vehicle slid about, wheels locking into a savage skid. The entire LRV rolled twice, before miraculously managing to land on its feet again.

Four of the marines, though thoroughly disorientated, remained intact. Griffin was not so fortunate. He had still been standing up when the Stinger tipped over. The power armor he wore could not save the young man's neck from being pulverised as he was grounded between the dirt and the monstrous weight of the vehicle. His rocket launcher tumbled free into the dirt.

"Shit! Man down!" The medic was shouting.

It was the first casualty inflicted by the Orks in course of the New Geneva WAAGH!

It would not be the last.

* * *

><p>Back in Horizon's Control Tower, dozens of navy technicians perched before rows of whirring communications equipment. Hovering behind them, Ashton and Burbatoff were hunched over one of the consoles. Their faces were taut with the burden of command.<p>

"We have a man down; Private Terry Griffin." Howard's voice was tinny as it came through the com-link.

"What's his status?" Burbatoff responded, his brow knitted in concern. There was a dreadful pause.

"He's KIA, Sir. I say again, KIA."

A sombre hush fell over the room. The two marines exchanged a worn look, one they had shared all too often in the past.

"Acknowledged, Alpha-One, things are getting too hot out there." Ashton had seen enough. "Disengage and head for extraction, over."

"Ten-Four, Alpha-One out."

"You're pulling them back already?" Burbatoff asked, arching his eyebrows in surprise.

"If they're able to scramble that many hostile air units already, then I'd say we've assessed their strength well enough. I'm not going to waste valuable Marines confirming the obvious."

Burbatoff nodded. He wasn't one to argue. Across the room, one of the com officers frowned, and squinted up at the two marines.

"Uh, Sir, we're getting a transmission from Kilo-Five-Seven."

"He's supposed to be maintaining radio silence." Ashton growled. "What the hell does he want?"

The tech's face was a mask of confusion.

"That's just it, Sir, I'm not quite sure. He keeps saying something about a stow-away…"

"A _what_? Give me that!" Ashton snatched the headset away from the tech.

"Ashton here. This had better be good, Terminator…"

The swarthy major listened for a moment. The pilot's voice on the other end of the line sounded as if he were on the verge of a panic attack. As Ashton listened, and the full extent of the situation became apparent, he could see why. Even he went a bit pale. The muscles in his jaw bunched up._Never a good sign_, Burbatoff thought.

"Burbatoff, is Administrator Jennison around?" Ashton enquired quietly.

"No, Sir, she's currently over-seeing construction of the Eastern trenches. Will I go get her?"

"No, no that won't be necessary, Lieutenant. In fact, try keep and her there for as long as you can. Whatever you do, don't let her near the ops centre."

"Will do, Sir." Burbatoff said, before lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "May I ask why, Sir?"

Abelev shook his head, looking every bit his forty-five years of age.

"Trust me, Burb: you don't wanna know."

* * *

><p>Aboard the <em>Gutwrencher<em>, the Battle Net was alive with confusion. The _Blood Giver _was down, and Tinyblower's blood was up.

"Oy, Open da hatch!" The Nob boomed, hefting his crude assault canon.

Stepping out into the rushing wind, his exposed skin shivered by the fearsome breeze, Tinyblower held onto a support strut and regarded his prey. Far below him, weaving desperately to avoid the Ork's juddering plasma batteries, was another Humie's troop transport. Their puny dakka pinged harmlessly off the Ork dropship's hull.

More Humies. Unexpected, bothersome weaklings. The cowards had taken advantage of this fact, and bloodied the Nob's forces because of it. The insult was intolerable.

No matter, their end would be swift.

Tinyblower swung his assault cannon to bear. He adjusted his aim, giving the human vehicle a sizeable lead. With a belly-laugh he opened fire, watching as the oversized projectiles tore columns of fire up across the canyon floor. The human vehicle burst through the initial salvo, visibly shaken. Their destruction was only a matter of time. Still chortling, Tinyblower continued to fire. He opened a link to the Vox Net on all channels, wide-band. Even the Imperials overheard the instructions.

"All Boyz, converge on the other Humies! We have new prey ta' smash!"

* * *

><p>As he prepped the Grizzly for take-off, Jerry did his best to ignore the sullen eyes burning tiny holes in the back of his helmet. The pilot had strapped Sandra into one of the flight seats, after giving the little girl a severe telling off. Or at least he thought was a severe telling off, at any rate. By his own admission, Jerry was useless with kids.<p>

The engines whined as they began to cycle up. Jerry made a point of double checking the Grizzly's weapon systems. Howard's men were roughly fifteen minutes out, and the pilot intended to cover them every step of the way before effecting a scoop and scoot.

"You all settled back in there?" Jerry called out to his passengers.

"Good to go!" Corporal Mikey shot back. The other marines flashed their thumbs up, eager to get in the fight.

Sandra didn't answer. She was too busy fuming.

"Here we go…" Perry said, easing the flight stick back.

With a flare of engine wash, Terminator rose into the sky, weapons primed.

"More Humans, here?" Rafael stepped over an exhausted Guardsmen as he approached the Shipmaster. "This eases our current predicament greatly."

"Quite so." Weyland agreed thoughtfully. "But as I recall, under the star charts, there is no indication of an Imperial planet here, these humans must be left on their own without the Emperor's Light."

The Ultramarine narrowed his eyes. "You're saying they're heretics?" he asked, voice laden with suspicion.

"Not exactly, no, they've never even heard of the Emperor, it would be unwise to just cast them as heretics. In the ten years we have served together, have I ever failed you?" Weyland countered, returning Rafael's gaze openly.

"No, Lord Inquisitor. Never."

"So you trust my judgement, Brother?" Weyland continued.

"Without question."

"Then trust me now when I say this. Take the survivors; scatter them throughout the valleys and gulleys. Use every nook, occupy every cranny. Avoid conflict whenever possible."

Weyland was checking the power supply of the plasma gun fastened to his thigh. Satisfied, he slapped it twice in a good luck-gesture. "Await further instructions on my private Vox frequency."

"Understood." Rafael bowed his head obediantly. "The shadows themselves will not know we are here."

"I would expect no less, Captain Rafael." Weyland smiled. He held up a hand. "One other thing - a request, if you will.

"Name it."

"Leave me three of your best men."

Rafael nodded, pointing at Zantheus and two others.

"Escort the Lord Inquisitor. Give your lives, if necessary."

"Your will be done, Brother!" the three Navy Blue armoured Space Marines replied in chorus. Rafael nodded and turned back to the black-plated Lord Inquisitor. He stepped forward, concerned.

"What is it you are planning, old friend?"

Weyland test-activated his power sword. It gleamed hungrily in the dim half-light of the enclosed canyon. Satisfied, he snapped it off again. The Lord Inquisitor then cast a look over in the direction the second Ork dropship had headed. His voice was distant, wistful almost.

"Something I could never have imagined doing, throughout my entire career."

With that, the Lord Inquisitor turned and rushed off deeper into the valley. His three hulking body-guards hurried after him, and were soon lost to the shadows of the looming cliffs.

Rafael regard the twinned pair of Terminators standing beside him, trying to gauge their views on their Lord's plan. They simply shrugged back at him, their armoured plates clanking heavily with the gesture. The Space Marine officer turned to address the Space Marines, Guardsmen and Stormtroopers gathered around him.

"You heard the man! All warriors, disperse, and await my signal! May the grace of the Emperor be with you!"


	12. Chapter 12

Staff-Sergeant Raymond Howard wasn't prone to panicking. An experienced vet, he had served under Major Ashton for most of his career. He never questioned orders, and always saw them through to the end. _Always keep a cool head_, his father had told him, _no matter what_. He had built his career on that simple principle, and that same principle had seen him survive where many others wouldn't. Some called it luck, but Howard had always thought different. Now, he was beginning to rethink his attitude.

Now, he could use all the luck he could get.

Thick ballistics hammered into the path ahead of him. They exploded in gouts of orange flames, pelting the windshield with a mist of charred dirt and smoking pebbles. The transport's wheels churned up billowing clouds of black soot as they powered across the tortured valley floor. The driver, Private Hicks, recited a mantra of endless swear words under his breath. The shadow of the crude orange dropship loomed over them, hungry and impatient. Machinegun fire licked from its turrets, stabbing at their rear tyres. It was almost toying with them.

It was only a matter of time before their luck ran out.

"Fireteam Alpha-One, this is Kilo-Five Seven, do you copy over?" The speaker in his helmet squawked.

"Uh, copy that, Terminator." Howard answered, holding his helmet-mic steady with his free hand. "Receiving you loud and clear."

Howard had to strain his ears to hear over the deafening explosions bracketing the battered Stinger. One of their tyres was a on fire.

"Keep heading due north of your position, there's a clearing about two minutes out from your location. Evac is in position and awaiting your arrival, over."

"I'm not sure we're going to be able to make it, Terminator." Howard flinched as a fist sized rock was thrown up against the windshield, sending a spider web of cracks across the glass. "We're taking a serious amount of fire here, over."

After a moment's hesitation, Jerry's voice came back over the com channel.

"Ten-four, Alpha-One. Sit tight: Terminator is inbound."

* * *

><p>Tinyblower was losing patience. The humie pilot had skill - that much was certain. For two whole minutes, he had deftly avoided the <em>Blood Giva's<em> fusillade, doggedly defying death with each passing second. Tinyblower tightened his grip on the support strut and ordered the dropship to overtake their stubborn prey. The crude landing craft powered forward with a burst of its engines.

The Nob turned to the ten other Ork Shoota Boyz crouched within the dropship's drop bay.

"Prepare to fight, ya gits!" he growled, "We'z gonna kill us Humies!"

They snuffled eagerly, racking the slide on their Shootas. Some tightened ragged bandoliers of clinking ammunition, re-adjusting their helmets as they prepared themselves for the imminent combat. The Gretchen manning the hatch turrets brought their weapons up to full power. They chattered to themselves giddily. They were ready.

Tinyblower gave the order.

"WAAAAAGH!"

Howard's jaw fell open. The hostile air ship, its patience clearly eroded, had zoomed down into the valley right in front of them. It swung about on its axis, presenting its profile. A short _green skinned...thing_ manning a side turret cackled and unleashed a scintillating storm of heavy fire across the Stinger's bonnet. Armour plating peeled away like so much tissue paper as the shots sliced home. The windshield exploded in a blizzard of flying glass. Like a thousand burning knives, the shards sprayed inward. Hicks shrieked as the fragments cut deep into his eyes, he had always kept his visor on no matter what, and now he paid the price for his negligence. Howling in agony, his ragged hands clawed at his ruined face. It only served to drive the shrapnel deeper.

Hicks let go of the steering wheel.

The vehicle veered to the side, clipped a boulder, and flipped completely. It bounced and rolled with a sickening crunch, throwing its occupants free of their restraints and hurled them mercilessly against the ground below. Most died instantly. Howard's life was saved by his power armor, which nearly split in two as his head jerked forward into the dashboard. He lolled about, unconscious. One of the vehicles wheels detached from the wreckage entirely, rolling on its own volition for several metres.

Had Howard been awake, he would have heard the distant whine of Terminator's thrusters, drifting ever closer.

* * *

><p>Jerry brought the Pelican over the next rise of canyon wall, his targeting reticule green-lit on the HUD. He barely had time to digest the scene in front of him: the rising smoke, the crumpled Stinger, the lurking dropship. He didn't have to. His pilot's instincts took over. Jerry had seen a lot of wierd shit while travelling aboard the <em>Anchises <em>but this one takes the cake, they were green, mean, and big killing machines. Standing almost as tall as a Marauder, no matter, shoot enough bullets into something and it will inevitably die. With a feral grin, he clamped his finger tightly against the flight-stick's trigger.

The drop-ship's 20mm rotary canons chattered as the rounds chewed deeply into the spine of the surprised dropship. Several cut straight through the ship altogether. One Gretchen on the starboard turret simply vaporised in a puff of orange mist. The pilot saw one of the Ork Shoota Boyz hurl themselves clear of the crippled vessel. Redoubling his efforts, Jerry raked the hostile air ship m with a second salvo.

The dropship didn't explode. Instead, its engines simply belched out a thick belt of smoke, and the gutted craft fell from the sky with all the grace of a cannon ball. Satisfied, Jerry lowered the ship in for an inspection run. He keyed the com as he was about to set the Grizzlyn down a hundred metres south of the Stinger's wreckage. Try as he might, he couldn't quite keep the satisfaction from his voice.

"This is Terminator to Control. Scratch one Tango."

He had just about to un-tab the com-switch when Sandra began to scream.

Perry looked up. Hurtling toward the cockpit was a wall of rocket fire.

He didn't have time to think. Jerry grabbed the flight stick.

* * *

><p>Weyland watched from the shadows as the Alpha-Ork Nob surged toward the unknown human ship, its assault cannon spitting angry death. The human vessel jerked to one side, its rear engines ploughing into the rock face behind it with a sickening crunch.<p>

The pilot's quick reflexes were both the dropship's salvation and its undoing. The Ork dropship's missiles sailed cleanly through the air, exploding harmlessly against the far canyon wall. Unfortunately, the ship's rear engines had been crunched to twisted balls of useless metal. For a second, the ship wobbled precariously in the air, its remaining engines whining furiously as the ship struggled valiantly to stay aloft. The Nob howled in bloodlust, and unleashed a second salvo.

This time the Nob's shots bit deeply into their prey. The port wing was ripped away and the aircraft rammed into the dirt in a spray of blinding sand. Its engines had failed entirely. The Nob threw down his weapon and began to beat his mighty fists against his chest. He roared in triumph. The sound made Weyland's blood boil.

Alarmed that their leader's was isolated on the ground, the third Ork dropship swooped in to support. It touched down, and began to disgorge its troops, before rising off into the sky once more. Twelve more Ork Boyz armed with Choppas and Shootas rushed forward to unite with the Nob, adding their own coarse voices to the bellowing victory call. After a moment, the Orks fanned out, stalking toward the downed human dropship. The hunt was almost concluded.

"Get in position, Space Marines." Weyland warned, priming his plasma gun, "The time for vengeance is at hand."

* * *

><p>Jerry awoke to the sound of gun-fire. Through the constant ringing in his ears, he could make out the staccato crack of a C-14 Impaler Gauss Rifle, interspersed with the heavier thunking sound of the aliens' more primitive weaponry. He shook his head groggily, and checked his watch. Its face was cracked.<p>

14:02:32 was frozen on the display. He'd been out for all of three minutes.

Jerry popped his restraints, drew his side-arm and looked about for Sandra. The little girl's seat was empty. He found her cowering in the equipment locker, her hood pulled tightly over her head. Traumatised, she rocked back and forth on her haunches, saying nothing. Unsure of what to do, Jerry left her there for now, and scurried down the rear ramp to join the battle outside.

The Grizzly had carved a shallow trench into the valley floor, and it was from there that the Dominion Marines effected their resistance. The hulking green aliens advanced on their position steadily, ducking behind boulders, bushes and scattered debris, all the while chanting in crude english, "Ere, we go! Ere we go!" that unnerved Jerry a little. Organised and efficient, they took turns darting from cover to cover. Jerry took a deep breath, and dove down into the trench.

Private Hughey was already dead. A series of four lucky projectiles had driven deep into the exposed area of his power suit chest piece. His body lay twisted at the top of the trench-lip. With a sickened look, Perry noticed that Hughey's leg still twitched spastically. Occasionally, stray rounds would slam into the corpse, jostling it about like some grotesque puppet.

Not wishing to meet the same fate, Jerry scrunched as low as he could as he bellied forward to where the three remaining Marines had taken cover. They had spread themselves as far as they could along the trench line, in a desperate bid to dilute the Orks'' extraordinary firepower. Dug in and determined, the Marines peppered the enemy with return fire, slinging grenades over the trench lip whenever the opportunity arose.

So far, they had taken down three of the advancing Shoota Boyz. Their grass and grime-drenched bodies sprawled in the dirt.

"Glad you could join us, flyboy!" Corporal Mikey grinned, tossing him Hughey's C-14 Gauss Rifle. Perry caught it deftly. "Know how that thing works?"

"Vague idea!" Jerry replied, scrambling up to the trench lip. The gun mostly was wielded by men in power armor to handle the recoil, nevertheless, the large rifle can fired by unarmored shooters. At 200 depleted uranium spikes, they could give even the Protoss a run for their money. Jerry realised Hughey hadn't even gotten a chance to fire a single shot.

Hands shaking, Perry flipped the safety from stand-by to active. As the air around him buzzed with lethal metal, the pilot desperately tried to recall his the basics of Fundamental and Preparatory, all those years ago. He sighted the rifle, resting it on the sandy lip in front of him.

_Select target, aim, fire. Select target, aim, fire…_

_"_What the hell are these things?" voiced Perry as he sighted down one of the Ork Shoota Boyz, up close they were really big, and really scary with those nasty machetes they were carrying. "The hell if I know!" replied Perez, the Marine in front of him.

Jerry triggering a short burst at an advancing brute. The assault rifle juddered in his hands as it blurted angrily, banging violently against his shoulder almost dislocating his firing arm. The massive alien roared in indignation, it's crude armor absorbing the shots. Undeterred, it continued charging and firing his weapon.

"Point and shoot, right?" Jerry yelled out, feeling decidedly unsure about himself.

"More like spray 'n pray!" Private Linderman corrected, demonstrating by unleashing a torrent of shots which sent a trio of the aliens diving for cover. Linderman turned to say something else, but then the trench lip erupted under a withering hail of explosive grenades. Linderman vanished along with most of his cover. When the smoke cleared, only a bloodied and smoking boot from the CMC-300 remained.

Horrified and enraged, Jerry re-sighted and fired a more sustained burst. The same greenskin he had clipped before roared in pain as its chestplate collapsed and the rounds stitched across its chest. This time, Jerry didn't release the trigger. Toppling forward, the monster spun to the dirt and lay still.

Elated, Jerry went to target another Ork. Lining it up in his sights, he pulled the trigger. All he received in return was a dry click.

"Shit, I need a reload!" Jerry cried, panicking. Mikey didn't even look up from his iron sight as he tossed the pilot another clip. Jerry's hands trembled as he fumbled to slide the new clip home.

"Fire in the hole!" Private First Class Perez roared, ripping a grenade from his webbing and flinging it in the direction of the advancing Orks. Two of the beasts, too slow to react, were consumed by the savage cloud of shrapnel. Perez took aim with his rifle and resumed firing.

They gave a good account of themselves, all in all. As the Ork Boyz advanced, the Terran Domnion Marines demonstrated surprisingly remarkable discipline and commendable marksmanship, given their reputation until the very end. On an individual basis, the Marines were woefully outclassed. With the average Greenskin towering at an average height of 2.8 metres, the Orks were on par if not stronger than a Marine in Power armor, more resilient and - if that wasn't enough - they were almost zero tolerant to pain, ensuring that they shrugged off all but the heaviest of injuries. Several times the Marines made shots that should have killed an average opponent.

Sadly, the Orks were no average opponents. That fully a third of the creatures had been gunned down before they swarmed the Marines' position spoke volumes of the Marine's courage, tenacity and valour in the face of overwhelming odds. It was Fire-team Alpha-One's proudest moment.

It was also to be their last.

Corporal Mikey made a priceless headshot before a return round punched through his visor and spat viscera out of the entry wound. He collapsed without a sound. Private Perez, courageous to the last, charged forward as the enemy leapt over the trench lip, bayonet at the ready, choosing to meet them head on. His courage was legendary. Alas, it proved to be a futile. His shots rebounded harmlessly off Tinyblower's armor before the massive alien struck him down with a single murderous swipe of its assault canon.

Jerry's assault rifle clicked dry once more, and he flung it aside, drawing his side-arm. He racked the slide, and bellowed a nonsensical war cry at the top of his lungs. The C-7 pistol barked angrily. A carpet of shell casings pooled at his feet.

He emptied a full magazine into the face of the oncoming Nob, before the massive beast guffawed and swatted him aside with dismissive backhand. He hadn't so much as dented the Nob's shields. Jerry tumbled back into the trench, winded. The remaining Ork boyz, seven in total, lined the trench lip in a semi-circle around him, back-lit by the blazing sun. They stared down at him, red eyes glittering balefully.

"Gimme' a real fight, Humie!" the same one who killed PFC Perez and smacked the Flight Officer bellowed.

_I have to keep them distracted away from the lander_, Jerry decided. _Better they toy with me than find the kid._

Jerry reached up and pulled off his helmet. Screaming, he hurled it at the Ork Nob. Jerry rose to his feet, standing tall and proud. In reality, he was scared shitless. With slow finality Jerry drew his combat knife. Bracing himself for the end, the pilot crouched low into his best imitation of a fighting stance. Truth be told, he hadn't the slightest clue what he was doing, but he'd be damned if he didn't at least cut the bastard.

_Last stand time_, he thought grimly.

Sensing Jerry's defiance, the Nob turned and handed his assault cannon to one of his boyz. Leisurely stepping down into the trench, Tinyblower guffawed as he took in his opponent's desperate appearance. The Nob cracked his knuckles in anticipation. He was easily twice the pilot's height.

"I'z gonna use ya bones to pick my teeth humie." Tinyblower promised.

"Well then I hope I give you indigestion. Prick." Jerry shot back petulantly.

Before Jerry had a chance to kick himself for choosing the corniest last words in the history of mankind, a dazzling wall of hissing plasma sailed through the air overhead.

Announcing its presence with a cheerful splash, it latched itself onto the helmet of the Ork Shoota Boy minding the Chieftain's cannon, whereupon it began burning and boiling hide of the greenskin with superheated plasma. The hulking alien howled in outrage, dropping the cannon as it panicked. He desperately tried to tear the keening ball free. The Ork only succeeded in having his hands fused to the plasma stain. His green leathery skin bubbled and hissed as it was melted by the searing heat.

the plasma sizzled downwards, ignoring the screams of the Ork and came into contact with his grenades.

Then he exploded.

The result was devastating. Two things aggravated matters. Firstly, the Ork Shoota Boyz were laden down with stacks of volatile ammunition so typical of their race. Secondly, the assault cannon, which had been discarded just below the initial explosion, took the force of the blast. The chain reaction vaporised four of the aliens instantly, and flicked the others into the air. Jerry only survived because Tinyblower bore the full brunt of the explosion.

Miraculously, the Nob had survived. Tinyblower toppled forward onto one knee, roaring in agony. Most of his back armour had been sheered away. His flesh hung down in ragged strips. Enraged with pain, Tinyblower ripped his metallic head-crest free, and leapt toward Jerry. Jerry's ankle caught on a rock and he tumbled to the ground. The Nob screamed in fury, linked his fingers together into a single fist, and raised them high above his head.

A shadow darted overhead.

All Jerry caught was an impression of a massive parody CMC-Power Armor smudged in Navy Blue with gold markings and oversized shoulderplates, as the figure leapt on top of the shrieking berserker. The Nob lashed out with a roar, swatting the figure aside. Not losing momentum, the newcomer rolled smoothly into a crouch and – without pausing - lunged again. The Nob swung his mighty Choppa, only this time, his opponent wasn't there.

The Blue armored figure, who moved too fast despite his appearance, ducked under the swing, and then counter-attacked. There was a glittering flash, a blur too fast to follow. To Perry, it looked as though the figure had simply swept past the towering Nob without stopping. For a moment, nobody breathed.

Gurgling, Ork Nob Tinyblower slid apart in two halves, neatly bisected down the middle.

The remaining Orks howled in anguish, rushing to avenge their fallen leader. They never made far as they were cut down by Bolter fire from the other Ultramarines laying back, striking each of them down within a heartbeat. Within seconds, it was all over.

The figure turned toward him. Its power sword, encased in blue energy, as lethal as it was sleek, hummed menacingly. Perry scrambled for Mikey's discarded C-14. A heavy boot landed on his wrist, pinning him in place.

Two more figures stepped into along with one view around the trench lip, one had the same armor as the one who killed the Nob, the other was human, male in a long black and armored coat. With a panicked yelp, Jerry realised he was surrounded. His limit reached, Jerry valiantly fought the urge to soil himself.

"Be at peace, mortal." The intimidating helmet of the Ultramarine burned into him as he peered down at Perry. "This is not your day to die."


End file.
